


Little Liar

by AnnieVH



Series: Behind Closed Doors [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, Hospitals, Sexual Abuse, Sickness, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8553313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: When her mother gets sick, Milah and Rumple go visit her, bringing up parts of Milah's past that she'd rather stayed hidden.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNINGS** : mentioned child abuse (psychological and sexual), domestic abuse (physical and verbal), alcoholism and threats of suicide.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER**  
>  Last Espenson Awards, Milah won _Best (Worst) Villain_ for _Cracks_ (which is part of this verse) and, as a thank you, I started writing this story. It was going to be much simpler and shorter, but as I continued to work on it, my “much simpler and shorter” story refused to happen. The more I thought about Milah's past, the more I realized how dark I truly believed it to be and just how much abuse she had to endure. Over the course of ten months, I wrote and abandoned and picked this story up again several times. It continued to grow as more of Milah's past started taking form and I began touching subjects I usually stay away from.  
>  At one point, I decided to push through and finish this story because I needed to have this information to keep on writing, but I wasn't going to post it because:  
> a) this is a complicated issue and I don't know if I'm doing it justice. I don't want to talk about a child being raped just for shock value or to make my readers sad or sympathetic.  
> b) I think this story might change the way people look at Milah and, as a consequence, the way they look at the Behind Closed Doors series as a whole.  
> The essence of BCD is as follows: a husband is abused by his wife, why does he stay and how can those around him help? That's the story, this is what I've been researching for about two years. By adding this look into Milah's life I was also asking myself “how did Milah become the abuser?” and I don't think fifteen pages are enough to answer this question. They're a start, but they're not enough.  
> I had long conversations with my beta about this – and god bless her because I whined about this issue for two weeks straight! I complained that my characters were not behaving like they should, that the subject was too difficult, that I was late for NaNoWriMo (because I couldn't seem to work on anything other than this damn story), and that it wasn't turning out the way I wanted.  
> As always, Maddie calmed me down (I swear, she's the reason I don't have anxiety), said the story was good and that I should post it. I made several changes, went back and edited a few things, then a lot of things, and now, you're left with the result.  
> It's far from perfect, but I had to write it. I welcome every form of concrit you guys have for me.

In an entire decade, Milah must have had mentioned her mother only a couple of times, never with flattering words, always in vague terms. There was a complicated story there, it wasn't hard to tell, and Rumple, having his own complicated story with his now late father, didn't push for details.

Her mother wasn't around anymore. She was alive, but there'd been a serious fall out between mother and daughter and they were no longer on speaking terms, which was a pity. He'd wished Bae could have at least one grandparent in his life, but he doubted Milah and Mrs. Read even knew of each others whereabouts.

And that was what made Milah's announcement that morning all the more shocking.

“Mother just called.”

Rumple stared at her. The way she'd spoken, one might have assumed she talked to her mother every other day on the phone. He awaited more information, but she didn't say anything else..

“I didn't know she had our number,” he replied, though, in retrospect, it might not have been the most sensible thing to say.

Milah shrugged, rotating her shoulders back, a slow motion that exposed all the tension that lied heavy on them. After ten years of marriage, he'd become all too familiar with that particular tick, and he could only hope not to set her off before Baelfire came downstairs.

“I gave it to her, just in case,” Milah said.

“In case of what?”

“Emergencies,” she stated, her tone implying that was the most obvious answer and she shouldn't have to waste time explaining it to him.

“And... is there an emergency?”

“You'd find out if you stopped asking stupid questions.”

The warning in her voice was palpable and Rumple braced himself. It was going to be one of those morning.

“I'm sorry, my dear. Go on.”

Milah eyed him quickly, then turned her attention to the cup of tea in front of her. That alone should've been a warning sign. She refused to drink anything but coffee in the morning, unless something was bothering her and she needed a soothing drink instead.

Milah put down her cup. “Mommy is sick.”

Rumple registered the term of endearment first, the rest of the information flying over his head as barely relevant. To his wife, Mrs. Read had always been “mother” or “mom”, sometimes “that bitch that raised me”. On her lips, the title didn't sound loving, not like when Baelfire said it. “Mommy” was like a foreign word she'd learned as a child, but long since forgotten how to pronounce correctly. Then again, Rumple doubted the word would sound much better coming from his own lips.

“I'm sorry, love,” he told her. “What does she have?”

“She wouldn't say.” She sipped again. “She needs surgery. Which she can't afford.”

“We can handle that.”

Milah held on to her cup, stiff fingers curled around it as she inhaled the smell of it in deep breaths.

“She needs me. I have to leave after lunch,” she said, throwing the news at him as if they were a demand. Rumple didn't mind, for the most part. It was just her way. She didn't like to have discussions, so she nipped them in the bud, never giving him the chance to complain. _We're having chicken for dinner. We're going away for the weekend. You'll have to change that hideous tie_.

“Already?”

“Yes, Malcolm, _already_ ,” she snapped, dropping the cup on its saucer and pushing her chair back. “I'm sorry if my mother's _surgery_ is getting in the way of-”

“Milah, no, I wasn't criticizing,” he said, in the most assuasive voice he could muster. “I was just surprised, that's all.”

Milah huffed with impatience and paced the kitchen. Whenever she got like this, she reminded him of a caged animal, either looking for a way out of its trap, or for a reason to pounce.

“Where is she living now?” he asked.

“Philadelphia,” she muttered back.

“That's not too far. We can leave after lunch, perhaps earlier, if you'd like-”

“I didn't ask you to come.”

Whatever words he'd come up with as a means of comfort to his wife died in his lips. Not that she'd been particularly cruel in her tone. Rumple was used to Milah's bluntness by now, she wasn't a woman who measured her words carefully before speaking. Still, the realization that she was undergoing a significant personal crisis and hadn't thought to include him beyond the paycheck hurt.

The pain must have showed on his face because it didn't take her long to add, “What I mean is that this isn't your problem.”

“You're my wife, of course it's my problem,” he said, glad to hear her sound at least a little bit apologetic.

“But what about Bae?”

“He can stay with Ilva and Graham for a couple of days.”

He waited for Milah to disagree. Ilva Humbert was far from being her favorite person and it wouldn't be the first time she went on a rant about why that boy Graham was a terrible influence on her son. This time, though, she nodded without picking a fight.

“Fine. They will do.”

“I'll call Ilva now-”

“This isn't going to be fun,” she warned him.

“I'm your husband, Milah,” he repeated. “I'm supposed to be there when things aren't fun.”

 

*

 

Milah never passed on the opportunity to remind him that they lived in the middle of nowhere. If their sole income didn't rely on the fact that they now owned most of Storybrooke, he was sure she'd have convinced him to move somewhere else a long time ago. While Rumple appreciated the quietness of a small town, he couldn't help but agree that, sometimes, it felt like being cut off from the rest of the world. The nearest airport was three hours away and the only travel agency in town spent so much time trying to convince him that Florida was a much nicer destination this time of year that Rumple almost lost his temper – and if _he_ was feeling frustrated, he couldn't begin to imagine how Milah was feeling. She was probably a powder keg about to explode.

However, her temper remained under control the entire day and the silence of it was beginning to worry him. This was so unlike her. Milah didn't believe in suppressing her feelings, especially those of sorrow and anger. She'd much rather pour them out in the open, where they were easier for her to control. It was a challenge to handle her moods more often than not but he'd become quite skilled at it, as a good husband should. He couldn't afford to be angry or frustrated. At any moment now, her wrath would explode and he'd have to keep his head above his shoulders if he wanted to handle it properly and in a way that didn't make the situation worse.

After the small outburst in the kitchen, though, Milah went silent, only answering to what he had to say with short words and, occasionally, an exasperated sigh. He thought she'd snatch the phone from his hand and scream at the woman on the other side herself if he didn't manage to get them plane tickets in five minutes or less. But she didn't.

As they drove to Portland to catch their plane, and as they flew to Philadelphia, she remained taut as a wire, but utterly silent. The closest she got to letting her temper seep through was when a flight attendant tried to help her with her luggage, which had become stuck inside the compartment above their seat, and she snapped, “ _I said I got it! I'm not an idiot!_ ”

As embarrassing as it might be dealing with these moments, Rumple had to admit it made him almost relieved to hear her voice again. She might not be easy to deal with, but it was better than this new state of quiet unpredictability.

She couldn't even say her mother's name at the hospital, leaving it up to her husband to step in and inform the receptionist, “Mary Ann Read. We're her family.”

Plastic name tags announcing them as VISITORS were pushed their way, as the young woman said, “Second floor.”

With his free hand, Rumple took Milah's hand, a silent reminder that he was by her side. But the more they advanced into the hospital, the more it felt like he was pulling her along. She never stopped walking, never even glanced back, but he could tell by the way she walked just a step behind him instead of rushing in front of him, that she didn't want to face whatever waited for them ahead. When they stood in front of the bedroom door, though, all her hesitation disappeared and she barged into the room the way someone might pull a bandaid free.

Mary Ann Read had been shoved in a small bedroom where four beds had been cramped together, separated by nothing but thin blue curtains. He could see that two were empty, and one was occupied by a snoring old man. The woman on the bed closest to the door had to be Milah's mother.

There were no pictures of Mary Ann in their house, though Rumple had imagined she'd look like her daughter, with curly brown hair that was sometimes a little messy, and bright blue eyes that were full of life. The woman lying on the hospital bed, however, was emaciated and pale, her eyes dulled by age. Her face was broken in wrinkles that furrowed deep into her skin. Unlike Milah's, her dirty hair was dyed blonde, though long, dark roots had already grown. He would later find out through paperwork that she was only nineteen years older than his wife, but she might as well have been her grandmother.

“Mommy,” Milah called, hurrying to her side before the old woman had the chance to say anything. She didn't bother to smile at her daughter, though. “Mommy, we came as soon as we could-”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, the cracked voice of a longtime smoker. While Milah still held on to her London accent as a badge of honor, her mother's was almost completely gone, replaced by a generic American sound that Rumple couldn't place in any specific state.

“I came to see you, mommy,” Milah said, without hesitation.

“Why?”

“You called me. You're sick-”

“I didn't ask you for a visit. I asked you for money.”

Milah went quiet. Rumple stood by the door, wondering if he should take a step closer, or go outside and let the two of them sort things out.

“We brought the money too, mommy,” Milah said. “I just wanted to make sure you're doing okay.”

“I'm not doing okay,” Mrs. Read said, harshly. “I had a heart attack and I need a bypass, as I explained to you on the phone, and because this country's health care is shite, I cannot afford it. I don't see why you have to make a fuss about it.”

“I'm not trying to make a fuss-”

“You're always making a fuss about everything.”

The old woman turned her face away. Milah's silence was stunned.

Rumple decided to step closer. “Hello, Mrs. Read. I'm Malcolm. I'm your daughter's husband.”

The woman's head lolled back so she could look at him. Her gray eyes, which had been uninterested a second ago, became sharp as she gave him a good look over. She smirked. “You're a little young for her taste.”

“Mom-”

“Come here, lad. I want to look at you.”

The room was so small that he could only come closer by trading places with Milah, which she seemed more than happy to do, allowing him to stand over Mary Ann and be pierced by her eyes. He didn't want to say she looked judgmental, but the way she was staring at him made him feel exposed, as if the woman wasn't only assessing his face and clothes, but peeling him of his suit to imagine his naked body, and then prying into his brain to look for thoughts she wouldn't approve of.

“You're a _cute_ one, aren't you?” she finally asked.

“Thank you, Mrs. Read,” he said, though it didn't sound like a compliment. Quite the opposite. It made him think of the way his father talked about him, using words such as “delicate”, “soft”, or “quiet”. Words that should not be applied to boys.

His compliance seemed to amuse her, though she didn't laugh.

“Is it true you have a son?”

“Yes,” he sighed, glad to change topics. “His name is Baelfire. He's almost ten now.”

“I named him after your father, mommy,” Milah said.

Her mother scoffed. “That man always spoiled you.” To Rumple, she said, “She likes being spoiled. But you know that already.”

Rumple didn't know what to say. “We take care of each other. I suppose.”

Mrs. Read hummed a disapproving sound and turned away again.

“Are they treating you alright?” Rumple asked her. “I can arrange to move you to a private hospital, if you'd like. Get you a good doctor.”

“She wasn't lying,” said the old woman. “You _are_ wealthy.”

Milah shook her head and covered her eyes, ashamed – which was not an easy feat.

“God, mommy.”

Rumple tried to look as if he didn't mind the remark, though. “We have a comfortable life. We just want to make sure you're-”

“Alright,” Mary Ann said, and one might have thought they'd just convinced her to do something particularly unpleasant. “A better hospital. Nothing like this shite. Something with good food.”

“I'll go find a nurse,” Milah said and, before Rumple could say, “I'll go with you!” she had left the room.

He wished she hadn't. Something about that woman – his mother-in-law, he had to remind himself – made him very uncomfortable.

“If this is a loan,” she said, “I can't pay it back.”

There was no gratitude in her voice, just challenge.

“It's not a loan, Mrs. Read. You're Milah's mother. We want you to be healthy.”

“Hmph,” she said. The idea of a gift didn't seem to put her at ease. “How many children do you have?”

“One. One boy.”

“Didn't take her long to get pregnant, did it? That girl always knew what she wanted.”

“We were young. Careless.”

She turned to look at him again, a mocking smile on her lips.

“What is it?”

“You're a delicate boy.”

“Okay...”

“Quite delicate.”

Her index finger came to caress the back of his hand. Her touch was cold and without a hint of affection.

“Such _pretty_ hands. Soft. You haven't known a day of hard work in your life.”

“Maybe I should go get your daughter-”

“Come closer, lad.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said come closer.”

Instinctively, Rumple's torso leaned back to better avoid the woman with the invasive questions and the piercing gray eyes, but then he did as he was told.

“You shouldn't trust her,” she whispered, her voice cruel.

“Excuse me?”

“She's a little liar.”

He stared back at the old woman, too stunned to say anything.

“I should go... get your daughter-”

“Bren knows, poor Bren,” she continued, her eyes suddenly filling with tears, managing to make the whole situation even more uncomfortable.

“Mrs. Read-”

“She's always been a little liar.”

“Right. I'll go... see about that transfer.”

Rumple slipped away just in time to hear her mutter to herself, her voice beginning to crack.

“Lying little bitch.”

 

*

 

He found his wife screaming at the receptionist and, once she'd shouted at him that the idiot behind the counter didn't know what she was doing, he convinced her to go sit in the cafeteria and let him handle the bureaucracy of transferring her mother to a better facility. Milah walked away with heavy, furious steps, but offering minimal resistance. She didn't want to have to deal with it any more than he did.

Arranging the transference was a pain, which involved calling three different hospitals and being juggled around from one department to another and being put on hold every five minutes, but by the end of the day Mary Ann's surgery had been scheduled. She'd be relocated the following morning to a private hospital and operated on in the afternoon. A VIP room had been requested for her, and the chief of cardiology himself would be in charge of the surgery.

Money might not buy you happiness, but it could purchase peace of mind like nothing else, and sometimes that was all you needed.

He fetched Milah in the cafeteria so they could tell her mother the good news, but they were intercepted by a nurse just outside her bedroom. Mary Ann had already fallen asleep and, given the busy day that awaited her, it'd be best if they let her rest.

“I wish we could have talked more,” Milah said, as Rumple drove their rental to the hotel.

“Yes. Me too,” Rumple said, though being in the room with that woman had left a bad taste in his mouth. “She seems nice.”

“She's not.”

There was no arguing that.

“We should find her a place in Storybrooke, so that we can be closer. She might like to meet Bae.”

“She doesn't. I've already asked.”

“When?”

“A couple of years back.”

“I thought you hadn't spoken to her-”

“I check in on her,” she said, with a shrug. “I should've just sent her the money.”

Having struggled to get by most of their lives, they were both very careful with their expenses and made a point to always have their finances in order. Milah didn't work, but she had full access to their accounts and was very clever with money. There had been a few impulsive purchases over the years, mostly expensive dresses, sometimes a painting that had caught her eye, nothing too out of the ordinary. In those cases, she'd never seemed to have kept the receipt, and he'd never cared to look too closely. In the grand scheme of things, a couple of thousands were worth his wife's happiness. But now that he thought about it, perhaps she hadn't been careless at all and the money she couldn't account for had ended up with her mother.

That also explained why she'd told him about the surgery in the first place. A couple of thousands were easy to make disappear. The hospital bill, however, would surpass that considerably. There was no way Milah could hide that.

“She's your mother, Milah. Of course you should've come,” he said. “Your mom will come around.”

“Your father didn't.”

“No,” he agreed. “But she's not my father.”

“I have no idea why I came,” Milah said.

“You wanted to make things right. I'd have done the same.”

Milah didn't say anything.

“I'm glad you told me about it, really,” Rumple said.

She offered him a compromising, “Yes, well.”

“What was it that caused a rift between the two of you?”

Milah didn't answer at first, and Rumple thought she wanted to be left alone, but then she said, “Brennan.”

“Bren?” he asked, remembering what Mrs. Read had said before he left.

Milah looked at him. “What?”

“She mentioned his name, before I left.”

“What did she tell you?” she demanded.

He eyed her, and then the road again, surprised at the force in her words.

“Nothing. Just... she mentioned his name. Bren. But that was it.”

She continued to stare at him, as if trying to squeeze more information out of him without saying a word. When she looked at him like this, he could actually see a slight similarity between his wife and the old lady with the piercing eyes.

“Who was he?” he asked. “A cousin? A childhood sweetheart?”

“Her boyfriend,” she answered, turning to look out of the window. Then, she mumbled, “And he wasn't a sweetheart. Far from it.”

It was still early when they arrived at the hotel, but Milah claimed to be exhausted and got into bed after a quick shower. Rumple offered to bring her a salad from the restaurant, but she didn't even bother to tell him she didn't want it, instead pretending to be asleep.

Rumple stayed on the phone with both hospitals, making sure everything would go smoothly the following day. Then, he called Ilva to wish Baelfire a good night. Apparently, the boys would camp in the front yard, since it was a warm night, and they were really excited about it. He asked if mommy was alright, and Rumple lied through his teeth, claiming that, yes, mommy was doing just fine, she was just very tired because granny was sick.

“Can I meet granny?” Bae asked, sounding hopeful.

“We'll see about that when we get back,” he answered, wondering just how to tell his child that he had _another_ grandparent who didn't care enough to meet him.

Milah woke up at ten, just as he was getting ready to get in bed. She looked bewildered and immediately picked a fight over the fact that Rumple hadn't woken her up to talk to Baelfire as well.

“Darling you were so tired, I thought you'd-” he tried.

“But I am his mother!” she all but shouted, and he could only hope the hotel walls were not as thin as they looked. “I am a _good_ mother! Of _course_ I'd want you to wake me up! Why do you have to be so _stupid_!”

“You're right,” he said, trying to calm her down. “I should have. But we can call him in the morning-”

“You think I'm a bad mother.”

“What? No, of cour-”

“You think I wouldn't want to talk to my baby, but I would!”

“I know you would, Milah. You just looked so stressed out that I thought-”

“I'm a good mother, Rumple!” she shouted. “I'm a good mother!”

“I know you are-”

“You're such an ass sometimes.”

She slammed the bathroom door and locked herself inside. It wasn't the first time she walked away from a fight before they had the chance to talk things through, but Rumple still listened closely as she moved around in the bathroom. As far as he could guess, Milah had just chosen to sit in a corner and stay away from him for a while. She didn't come back until he lied in bed and turned off the lights.

Once she rejoined him in bed, Rumple came closer to pass an arm around her.

“This has been one hell of a day, my love,” he whispered.

Underneath his arm, he could feel her chest expanding as she sighed.

“One hell of a day,” she agreed, and didn't say anything else for the rest of the night.

 

*

 

The following morning was met with complete silence. Milah gave up words altogether and Rumple was left to fill the empty space they left, which wasn't an easy task. It seemed that, no matter what he came up with, his words fell short. They weren't comforting or clever, and they wouldn't wipe the sorrow from his wife's eyes.

He insisted that she'd have a chance to talk to her mother before the surgery and that she'd be feeling much better today, perhaps more open to a tearful reconciliation – only to find out upon arriving at the hospital that Mary Ann had already been sent into surgery.

“We were told to be here at two,” Rumple said.

The friendly nurse looked apologetic. “There must have been a mistake. She's been in surgery for an hour already. But you may wait, if you'd like. It shouldn't take more than another couple of hours.”

He opened his mouth to argue, only to realize that his wife had left his side to sit on one of the plastic chairs behind them. If waiting was all that they could do, then she was resigned to do just that.

“She's going to be fine, love,” Rumple told her, holding on to her hand.

“I know.”

“And after she's better, we can find her a place closer to home, so that we can take care of-”

“Please stop talking.”

He did so immediately. Having his wife's blessing to stop trying to be positive and comforting was quite a relief.

“Did your father ever got married again?” Milah asked, after thirty minutes had ticked by.

Rumple could've laughed. The fact that Malcolm had been married at all had always seemed out of character to him. He'd never been good at committing to people, be it employers, women, or even his own son. Once upon a time, he'd been a different man, though, or so his aunt used to say. A man who'd actually fallen in love. Still, the man he became after his wife's death didn't seem interested in walking down the aisle a second time.

“No,” he answered. “But he had a lot of girlfriends when I was growing up.”

Milah nodded. He'd told her that before. While Milah didn't like to talk about her mother and the life she'd had before they met each other, Rumple, who'd never had anyone who'd listen to him, had poured his entire history into her ears. The many women Malcolm Gold Sr. brought into their house were part of it. They came and went from their lives so frequently that Rumple could only remember the names of a couple of them.

“Dad didn't really want another wife.”

“Right,” she said. “Mom didn't want a husband either. But she had Brennan.”

He passed an arm around her and thought of Baelfire. Their marriage might not be perfect, but at least Bae had a mother and a father who loved him. It was more than either of them ever had.

“Rumple?”

“Hm?”

“Did they ever touch you?”

The question was thrown at him so casually that Rumple almost didn't understand it. Once he absorbed the words and they made sense in his mind, though, he felt his blood turning into ice. Not because the answer was yes, mind you. His father might have been less than careless about keeping doors closed, and he never gave a second thought to the naked women that roamed their house every other night, but most of them didn't spare his son a glance. Some had gone as far as to make a rude comment or an insinuation – one had gone as far as to touch his cheek, saying, “What a pretty boy you are,” with a drunken smile. But he could always turn around and lock himself in his bedroom, where he'd spend the next couple of hours pretending not to hear the female voices and the high-pitched moaning coming from his father's bedroom.

No, they'd never laid a hand on him, but the thought that Milah would even ask that question, and in such a dismissive tone...

“Milah,” he asked, carefully, “what did that man do to you?”

Her answer was immediate, practiced, “Nothing.” Then, she added, “She didn't believe me.”

“I will.”

“You'd be the first.”

“Then I'll be the first.”

Milah sighed with something akin to gratitude, but didn't say anything. A couple of nurses rushed by, their shoes filling the silence Milah had left with a rubbery sound.

“Do you think mommy is okay?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he answered, finding out that, truly, he couldn't care less. Not when Miah was implying something so horrible...

“She knew,” Milah said. “Long before I told her. I think she did, at least. Then again, he was always so nice to me. You'd think that men who hurt children are merciless, but he wasn't. He was methodical, he... groomed me. You know what's funny?”

Rumple didn't answer.

“He got inside my mind. Of everything, all the horrible things, that was the worst. That he could play with my brain like that.”

“Milah,” he said, but then trailed off. What should one say to something like this?

She shrugged, but he wished she wouldn't. It was like she thought this meant nothing to her anymore. This was not _nothing_. This was something to rage on.

“I came to her several times, but she wouldn't hear of it,” she continued. “Once I was even bleeding, but she said I should learn to keep my legs closed. That people would think I was a troublemaker if I kept telling lies.”

Rumple blinked and wiped the tears that rolled down his cheeks before they could drop onto his wife. He shouldn't cry. Milah wasn't. What would she say if he couldn't be strong for her when she needed him the most?

“I wish he was crueler.” Milah stopped and thought about it. “He _was_ cruel, but... not always. And when I turned fifteen, he told mommy that he wanted me.” She scoffed. “Bloody idiot. Kept his mouth shut for three years, but couldn't wait until I turned eighteen.”

“ _Three_ years?” he said, the number haunting him. That was over a thousand days. That was over a thousand _nights_ that he could've crawled into her bedroom, this helpless little girl who had no one to protect her except her mother. And Mary Ann Read had turned a blind eye.

“She kicked me out, but begged _him_ to stay,” Milah continued. “He wouldn't. He wanted to marry me.” She paused. “I didn't enjoy it. I wasn't in love with him.”

Rumple buried his nose in her hair and pulled her closer, though Milah refused to budge from her plastic chair.

“Of course you weren't, you were only a child, you did nothing wrong,” he said.

Underneath his arm, her body felt like a rock, and she continued talking in that monotone voice. As if her story didn't matter. As if she were so used to thinking about that it had numbed her from the inside out and now they were only words.

“I said I wanted to,” she told him. “But it wasn't... I only wanted a fake ID. He was going to get me one, so that I could get a marriage license. Once he gave me that, I just... I ran.”

Many times before Rumple had thought of Milah, no more than fifteen, doing what he'd never had the courage to do: leave her parent's house with nothing but a backpack over the shoulder and a fake ID. He'd always thought she was brave for doing so, an intrepid teenage girl, ready to face the world, so fearless, so full of life. Now, he couldn't help but replace the thought of a brave young lade with that of a child, her face tear-stained as she was turned away by the person who was supposed to protect her and now had to find a place to call home.

“What happened to Brennan?” he asked.

“He bothered me until I came to Storybrooke,” she said. “Then he stopped. I guess he couldn't find me. I thought he'd crawl back to her, but he didn't.” Milah paused. “I hope he's dead.”

“I wish I could kill him.”

Milah let out a little giggle and squeezed his hand tighter. Rumple was her little husband who avoided conflict at any price and wouldn't hurt a fly. She knew he didn't mean it, and Rumple did too. But she did appreciate the sentiment.

“I thought mommy would say she was sorry. That she missed me. But I guess that was wishful thinking.”

“You never know, Milah. Things might change,” he said, though all he wanted was to put good distance between his family and Mary Ann Read. As far as he was concerned, that woman could stay the hell away from them.

“They won't.”

“You don't know that, love-”

“They won't because she's dead.”

He frowned. “What?”

Milah pointed to the other end of the corridor. A doctor was coming their way, a hint of practiced sorrow on his face. A woman with a clipboard followed close behind them. It was no surprise when he stood in front of them and informed them that Mrs. Read hadn't made it.

Milah sat up on her plastic chair and Rumple quickly wiped his face again before she noticed he'd been crying.

“Would you like to see her?” asked the doctor.

“No,” Milah said. “What is the procedure to take the body?”

“Uhn...” The doctor looked at her husband, thrown off by her bluntness. When Rumple shrugged, he pointed at the woman with the clipboard. “She'll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Good.” Milah shot to her feet. “If I can't make amends, then I'll make sure the bitch is dead and buried.”

 

*

 

Rumple called Ilva that night to let her know their trip had just been extended another couple of days.

“Of course, I understand,” she said, in her usual, mellow voice. “Would you like me to call the funeral house? Let them know you're-”

“Milah wants to bury her in Philadelphia.” When Ilva didn't say anything, he continued. “She... has family here.”

“Oh. I didn't know that.”

“Yes, well. Could you put Bae on, I just want to say goodnight.”

This time, he remembered shaking Milah awake from her nap to talk to their son, for which she seemed quite grateful. Her entire face lit up and her eyes filled with tears the moment she heard his voice on the other side of the line. She stretched the conversation as much as she could, until Rumple finally reminded her that Bae had to go to bed, and so did she. They'd have a busy day in the morning.

The next day, however, she claimed a splitting headache the moment she opened her eyes. Rumple left to deal with the funeral home by himself, agreeing that a little rest would do her good.

When he came back three hours later, she'd already worked her way through half the liquor in their mini-fridge. He only had himself to blame.

Rumple knelt down by her side, putting his cane on the floor. “Hey, love.”

She focused groggy eyes on him.

“That's a lot of scotch you drank.”

“Vodka,” she corrected him. “Shite hotel has no scotch.”

He eyed the tiny bottles that had been left on the floor. The half a dozen beer cans had been smashed and thrown in the bin, but the glass bottles were rolling around, and he could see at least three of them were of Whiskey. And one of vodka. And two of something he didn't care to identify.

“I know you're upset, love, but lets not do this again, okay?” he said, gentle.

Milah's eyes became tearful.

“It's okay. Lets get you into the shower-”

“You're going to leave me.”

He dismissed that without a second thought. Milah could hold her liquor, but she liked to try her own limits – and his patience. As a result, he'd become quite apt at dealing with her when she was in this state.

“Come here, love, we have to take a shower- _Ow_!”

She slapped him so hard he lost balance and fell on his side.

“You're going to leave me!” she shouted, hysterical, and advanced on him. “You bastard! You're going to leave me! You're going to make him hate me!”

Her fist connected with his chin, but he managed to take a hold of the other one before she had the chance to punch him again. Despite the fact that Milah was much stronger than him, it was easy for him to capture her wrists, either the booze or her grief making her too dizzy to fight him.

“Milah, okay, okay, calm down!”

She straddled his hips, her face furious as she began to sob. “You're going to leave me because he damaged me but I'm not going to let you! You're not leaving me!”

She pulled her wrists and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her still. If he pushed her off of him she might bang her head on the mini fridge, or even run away from him and there was no way he'd be able to catch her if she did.

“I'm never going to let you go!” she sobbed, leaning closer.

“Okay, okay-”

“And you're not taking Bae because he's _mine_!”

Her teardrops fell on his face and he could smell the alcohol and the warmth of her anger.

“Milah, you're hurting-”

“He damaged me but you can't leave me!”

“Milah, _he didn't damage you!_ ”

Milah stopped fighting him, but didn't move, instead staring at him with wild eyes.

“I didn't notice,” she whispered.

“Milah-”

“Your leg was broken and I didn't know. I should have known.”

“You made a mistake, love, it's okay.”

“Mommy didn't notice either.”

“That's different, love. I'm not mad.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Look.” Rumple let go of her wrists. “Let's get off the floor, yes? Let's go take a shower- _Okay!_ ”

Milah threw herself down on him and hugged him, her arms awkwardly caught between his head and the carpet. She was still whispering something, but between her sobs and the alcohol, it sounded like gibberish to him.

“It's okay,” he insisted. “Everything is okay, love. We'll go home together and I'll make sure no one ever hurts you again.”

“You'll be with me?” she asked, desperate.

“Yes.”

“I can't be alone again.”

“You won't.”

He could hear her sucking in breath, trying to calm herself down and make sense again. In the heartbeat between a sob and another, she leaned even closer, so that her lips touched his ear, and whispered, “I'll kill myself if you leave me.”

He blinked at the ceiling, hating just how serious her voice sounded, how clear the words had been. “Don't say that, Milah.”

“Promise me again.” She looked into his eyes and breathed vodka on his face. “Promise that you'll never leave me.”

“I won't.”

“No matter what I do or how hard things get.”

“I promise.”

Her lips quivered.

“I promise,” he repeated. “There is nothing that can take me away from you.”

“Okay.”

“...Okay?”

“Okay.”

She rolled to the side and Rumple took in a deep breath. “Good. Thank you, love.”

“I drank too much,” she said.

“Yes, you did,” he agreed, and before he could push himself to a sitting position, she passed an arm over his chest and nuzzled his neck. “You need to get off the floor, Milah.”

“You're a good husband,” she said, ignoring him. “Such a good husband.”

He sighed, but decided to indulge her, pulling her closer and giving her forehead a kiss.

She seemed content for the first time in three days.

“Yes, so good,” she purred. “We're going to be so happy together.”

 


End file.
